


The Show Must Go On

by HansBlanke



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: 20th Century, Alternate Universe - Circus, Angst, Betaed, Bittersweet Ending, Carlos is Human, Cecil is Jewish, Cecil is Mostly Human, Cecil is immortal, M/M, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22258657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HansBlanke/pseuds/HansBlanke
Summary: Cecil can only watch, or that's what he thinks.
Relationships: Carlos & Cecil Palmer
Kudos: 17





	The Show Must Go On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nprose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nprose/gifts).



This was a century in which he was called Cecil.

No laws against witchcraft, hardly any superstitions against circuses and tricks. Crossing the borders could be easier, but it was still manageable.

A quiet, lovely time for a magician to live in.

Or at least that was what he thought before he met the new tightrope walker.

Like all the best and all the worst in this life, the man didn't introduce himself or announce his arrival. He just slid past Cecil in the common dressing room, and nothing was the same ever since.

_If Moses had seen the way my friend's face blushes when he's drunk, and his beautiful curls and wonderful hands, he would not have said in his Torah: do not lie with a man._

Cecil knew only too well that the merciful century would turn its back on him if he approached Carlos— _Carlos, what a sweet, perfect name—_ openly. It didn't mean he should stay away, but first they'd have to be able to talk confidentially. And it was going to be hard because Cecil felt numb and deaf in the presence of this masterpiece of a man _and_ because he and Carlos had no common language. Carlos had only begun to learn English when he'd joined the circus. And even though Cecil knew Spanish, he'd draw too much attention if he showed how many languages he was fluent in. He couldn't be that direct, not yet.

Well.

Cecil had been treading the earth for so long that the forty years in the desert seemed like a walk in a park. He could wait; he was actually quite good at it. And in the meantime, he could watch Carlos talk, smile and dance in the air.

He looked like he didn't need a rope at all. The impression was deceiving: Cecil would know if his love was a magical creature—a fairy, or a siren, for that matter. No, this was a human, and it only made his relations with the world stranger.

That was to say, it should probably be very easy to charm Cecil.

_But the rope?_

Cecil asked him. "Freedom," was the answer. Carlos lacked the English words for a proper explanation, it seemed, and he frowned, and chewed his lip, and chuckled to his thoughts.

Cecil would like to know what they were.

"This," Carlos pointed at his safety harness, "only training. Other time—freedom." He smiled widely, and something clenched in Cecil's chest. _How can you be like this?_ "I _know_ it is not safe."

Cecil nodded, still deaf and numb. It wasn't his job to tell anyone what to do with their equipment; it wasn't his anything to tell Carlos he could be wrong. _He can't be. He's Carlos._

Cecil could only watch him—preferably through a gap between the curtains, so it was easy. Until it wasn't.

Cecil never missed a single rope performance, and of course he was there when Carlos slipped.

It was a noisy day in a new town. The spectators were fascinated at first sight, which was the Invisible Girl who disappeared and then reappeared standing on her head, or balancing on a single toe, or in someone's lap in the front row. The trick was so simple Cecil was getting tired of it, but it looked good and provided a flawless start. 

And anyway, it was more fun watching the familiar show than listening to the sword swallower argue with the illusionist. The former wanted, just as always, to saw a volunteer in half; the latter promised to feed him to a literal dragon at the first attempt. Ugh.

When Carlos went out for his act, Cecil took shelter in his favourite fold of the curtain where no one could see him. He wasn't up to anything indecent; he just didn't want to have to explain himself if he started clapping with six hands instead of two or levitating in excitement. The burns he'd gotten in Venice in the fourteenth century still hurt at the thought.

He wanted to conform. His magic abilities were his own business. And he was doing such a good job ignoring them that he did literally nothing when the rope thinned treacherously (they must have dropped something on it, the goddamn idiots),

and Carlos' perfect movement missed the safe point,

and the man gasped _so quietly_ as he lost his balance and—

Cecil reacted like a human would. He froze, helpless and aching, and his heart, too, sank into nothingness, going lower, and lower, and lower—

It stopped with an agonising jolt.

It took him a moment and all the mental power he had left to realise that what he saw was more than just a reflection of what he felt. Because Carlos had stopped falling, too.

The whole world hung in uncertainty for a moment, Cecil seeing the sweat in Carlos' brow and the fear that stiffened in the man's eyes despite a confident smile. The equilibrist spread his arms, hanging upside down, then twisted his body like a cat, leaped back in the rope in a single movement and bowed to the public before fluttering away.

The air exploded with applause. Cecil's knees were weak. He stumbled back into the dressing room, and as he clutched at the wall with one hand, and at his chest with another, the curtain over the entrance moved again.

Carlos' toffee-coloured face was now pale grey. He was unbuckling the safety harness with clumsy fingers; his eyes were wandering.

"Mazel tov," Cecil said.

"Gracias." Carlos looked at him and held up the harness. " _I didn't have it on,_ " he said, and Cecil knew without asking that Carlos didn't realise he'd said it in Spanish.

There was very little time to worry about that as Carlos' eyes rolled back in his head. Cecil dashed forward to catch him and help him down onto a pile of clothes, and as he did, he saw that Carlos had actually fainted.

The harness fell to the floor and dissolved into thin air, only leaving behind an unconvincing smell of leather and a realisation that it had been Cecil's creation—or rather, one of his magic. 

Cecil was still holding Carlos' hand, his heart thumping with anxiety and love. They were alone. If he dared do something, Carlos wouldn't be the one to complain. 

He was acutely aware that someone could enter at any moment and that a crowd was bellowing outside. It was his act. He had mere seconds to—

He lowered his head and kissed Carlos' hand on the base knuckle of the middle finger—a lovely, perfect hand.

The next moment, he was on stage—and the show went on.


End file.
